


Called on the Carpet (a study in mixed metafloor)

by wynnesome



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Avengers Vol. 1 (1963), Bad Puns, Banter, Curtain Fic, Does The Rug Match The Curtain Fic, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Gift Fic, Introspection, M/M, Puns & Word Play, Shopping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22052311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wynnesome/pseuds/wynnesome
Summary: For the life of him, Steve hasno idea at allwhy, on this fine spring day, the Avengers' benefactor is suddenly dragging him along on a mysterious outing to... a carpet-maker's shop??But Tony Stark is his friend, and he's brilliant and handsome (and ok, Steve might be a little sweet on the guy), and he's happy to enjoy Tony's company now, and ask questions later.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 11
Kudos: 62
Collections: You Gave Me A Stocking 2019





	Called on the Carpet (a study in mixed metafloor)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mizzy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizzy/gifts).



> This fic is a stocking-stuffer fill for the inestimable [Mizzy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizzy), who bid upon but did not win my 2019 Marvel Trumps Hate fic auction, but had told me that if she won, she was going to ask me to write “the rug fic.” Said prompt being a brainstorm that had sprung up in the [You Gave Me A Home (18+)](https://discord.gg/F63Nr7K) 616 Steve-Tony Discord server a few weeks prior. 
> 
> In all honesty, I don’t actually remember a lot about that initial conversation, but I had jotted down a few ideas right afterward, and the idea never quite left me alone, and while I’m certain it diverged significantly from the original premise, at least a few bits and pieces from my notes did make it into the fic in slightly amended form. 
> 
> And from there, this little bit of cracky fluff managed to poof itself up into a 5.6k semi-contained explosion of Interpersonal Relationships, Introspection, and Feelings.
> 
> Mizzy, I hope this stayed true enough to the original spirit to make you glad you asked for it, and to bring you (and other kind readers) some fun and joy.
> 
> ~~
> 
> References to the rooms and layout of Avengers Mansion come from [this Main Floor graphic](http://marvelnextgen.wikifoundry.com/page/Avengrs+mansion+floorplans). A few other points in regard to relevant Avengers canon are included in the ending notes.
> 
> ~~
> 
> This story's OC came to life with the considerable aid of [The_Casual_Cheesecake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_casual_cheesecake). More about him, plus translations of the Arabic phrases used in the fic, are also included in the ending notes. Thank you so much, Cake, for lending your native language and culture with the result of greatly enriching the story, and also thank you for the beta-read, AKA "I can kill you with fluff just as readily as with angst." It’s my superpower; don’t fight it!

But for the built-in shelves lining the walls, the spacious library of Avengers Mansion had been cleared of furniture from corner to corner.

At breakfast, Steve's teammates had been discussing their assorted plans to get out and enjoy what was shaping up to be a lovely spring day. With thanks, he'd declined a couple of invitations to join in, having some paperwork he wanted to catch up on. Now, having completed his self-assigned quota, he’d thought to reward himself by picking out a new book to read.

Walking up to the library's doorway, he found Tony Stark pacing and muttering, scowling and lecturing the air with a roving hand, his eyes cast down in contemplation of the dark hardwood.

However puzzling Tony's behavior, it did nothing to detract from his elegant figure. Tall, slim, and dynamic, he wore his fitted, eggshell-white shirt tucked into neatly creased and impeccably tailored black slacks, his sleeves folded back over wiry forearms, and collar tantalizingly open at the throat.

As Steve ventured inside, the tread of his footsteps breaking into the rhythm of Tony's seemed to register, prompting Tony to look up.

"Tony, what are you--"

"Carpet... Yes, you're exactly right!" Tony freeze-framed his pointing finger before breaking the pose, trotting over to a confused Steve and slinging an arm around his neck. The friendly weight rested pleasing and light, reminding him to relax and lower his shoulders, releasing the unconscious tension he knew often held them scrunched halfway up to his ears.

Tony chattered on as if his voice were continuing the arrested motion of his feet. His rollicking babble was pleasant and relaxing, too.

"How do you do it, always making things so simple and clear? You march in and everything automatically forms up and falls into place, like chaos wants to reverse its polarity to placate you with order. Too bad I can't build that right into a logic circuit! And if I could, it still wouldn't be as magnetic as you."

Steve wasn't sure about that inspiring order thing; life often felt pretty hectic and disarrayed to him, but he was glad if he could be of help to Tony, even if it was something he did without knowing how

And... magnetic? He couldn't help but grin. That was clever, and made him feel good. 

He was pretty drawn to Tony, himself. Even if his was more along the lines of... what Tony's only sounded like. Steve knew the breezy compliments were one of Tony's ways, and that they were genuine. He just knew better than to think the flirtation behind them was.

It was all part of the appeal, though, Tony's humor, and his leading-man looks, of course, and his... well, Tony was right here, solid and familiar along his side, and it didn't take being this close, anyway, for Steve to notice how he always smelled really nice, too. Like, today, a cool, woodsy cologne mixing with the tang of something subtly metallic from all his machines, but Steve didn't feel right saying any of that out loud.

Seeming to have concluded one line of thought at least to his own satisfaction, Tony turned his head to catch Steve's eyes, shooting him a sparkling smile. "So! You ready to go shopping?"

As Tony ushered them out the door and into the early afternoon sunlight, it was Steve's turn to mutter. "How do _you_ always do this, reel me in till I don't know which way is up, and suddenly I'm along for some wild ride..." It was rhetorical, of course. Good-natured grumbling.

Tony replied anyway, with a guileless glance and a studiously neutral, "I'm glad you're here, Steve."

"Glad to be here," Steve reciprocated, and meant it. Even cloaked in a mysterious objective, Tony's enthusiasm was infectious. Steve was smiling broadly, and in fact, didn't mind a bit. If he'd been destined to leave his old life behind with the ice, he would forever be thankful it had been Tony and the team who'd found him, and invited him to share the momentous and madcap adventures of the Avengers.

And thinking about his unexpected, life-altering turns, that was why he was perfectly content to let an unplanned excursion with Tony fall under "find out when we get there."

After a short zip in one of Tony's prized roadsters, windows down to catch the breeze, they pulled up in front of an older but well-kept commercial-industrial row. Tony bounded inside with Steve trailing in his wake. Upon entry, the lobby looked more like an exclusive boutique, with ornate and tasteful lighting casting a glow over fine furniture and floor coverings, the whole room rich with deep reds and warm earth tones.

From a door discreetly slotted into the far back corner to their right, a slender, white-haired and dark-suited gentleman emerged to an exuberant greeting. "Mr. Bassat! _Sabah al kher_ , it's good to see you!" Tony exclaimed, throwing in a few words in a language Steve wasn't sure of, but could guess to be the shopkeeper's native tongue.

Tony stepped away from Steve and strode over to fold the man's hand between his own in an effusive, but clearly gentle, clasp. Both their faces shone with smiles that made the corners of their eyes all crinkly, the older man's very much moreso, and Steve got a glimpse of what Tony might look like many decades hence.

The man -- Mr. Bassat -- bowed a little over their joined hands. " _Ahla w sahla_ to you also, Mister Stark," he said, with a slight emphasis on the foreign phrase that sounded like he could be making a correction without quite pointing it out.

Shaking his head, Tony gave what seemed to be an oft-repeated reminder. "Still no 'mister' about it, _sadiqui_.”

" _Sadiqui_ ," Mr. Bassat returned, repeating back what Steve thought was the same word, but with a notably differing inflection, and, eyeing Tony mock-sternly, chided in his own softly lilting and precisely enunciated English, "your accent is as abominable as ever."

Steve could tell why he said it. Within a few unfamiliar syllables, he could hear the difference in the way the words flowed like melody from the old man's lips.

His fondness for Tony spoke with no language lessons needed.  
  
"And I will dispense with the formalities when you do, _ya ghali_. Titles and surnames are but vessels, empty of honor until filled with it by actions. First names hold no disrespect for your elders when a good young man like yourself demonstrates it in the ways that matter."

Watching Tony react to the guidance and praise from someone he seemed to look up to as a teacher or mentor of sorts was a revealing study. He had the grace to look sheepish, yet also shyly pleased, the tiny uptick that curved his mouth nearly hidden as he bent his head, cupping his elbows in their opposite hands at his waist.

Tony was one of the most assured and confident people Steve knew. Sometimes it seemed like this whole future was one gigantic machine Tony had designed and built himself, and he knew how to operate it better than anyone. Which, in many ways, Steve supposed, wasn't so far from the truth.

That had been intimidating at first, but Steve had shared enough time and company with him now to catch sight of some of his more intricate inner workings. Beyond his brilliance as an innovator, Tony was a caring soul; he loved to help people, and he had a deep-down eagerness to earn approval.

Frankly, Steve admired Tony a whole lot -- ok, it was fair to say he was a little sweet on the guy. But he'd say it to himself only, not to Tony or anyone else. It was private, a tiny ball of light he could enjoy keeping tucked away next to his own heart.

The interaction before him was like seeing the Tony he'd already come to know, but in an aspect he'd never met before. Like turning the page when he knew exactly what had to happen next in the story, but not how it had been written.

Captivating as this was, however, Steve was also beginning to feel uncomfortably out of place and intrusive, with nothing to do but stand across the room, effectively eavesdropping. Fortunately, Tony broke the moment just then to beckon Steve over, laying a reassuring hand in middle of his back and making introductions.

"Salah Bassat, I would like you to meet my good friend, Steve Rogers. He's an artist -- got the eye for color and design -- and he's helping me choose, today."

 _Good friend_ \-- he was Tony's _good friend_. That Tony had said it so easily, like he didn't have to give it a thought or question in the world, made Steve feel giddy and special in a way that even the awe of people meeting him as Captain America didn't.

Steve offered his right hand and had it accepted for a more traditional American handshake, the old man's bones light, but his grip sure. "A pleasure, Mr. Bassat." Regardless of the words exchanged with Tony about titles and respect, Steve certainly hadn't earned the first-name basis. "Any friend of Tony's is a friend of mine."

"And I will say the same to you, young man. Be welcome here."

"Thank you, sir."

Steve dropped back to Tony's shoulder, assuming that their actual business could begin now. He still had no idea what they were here for, or what he was to help Tony pick out.

It didn't help much when Tony started rattling off a string of numbers and fractions that after a few seconds, Steve put together as dimensions for a large rectangular area. At least their host could tell what Tony was talking about.

"Ah, a significant space, then. You will want liveliness, but not to overwhelm with something too ornate, nor bore with undue subtlety or an excess of repetition. Perhaps we can build a motif in bold, large blocks." He clapped his hands once, looking hopeful. "It will be a custom design? Mr. Steve can help choose the basic pattern and colors, and then I will have it completed in some weeks."

Tony shook his head, the corners of his mouth downturned with regret. "Ah, I'm afraid not. I know you would weave me a masterpiece, my friend, but for now, could I see what you have already made?"

"You are sure? I can design just for you, work in symbols to represent the household?" Mr. Bassat winked. "Themes for your 'Avengers'? The lovely 'Wasp' and steadfast 'Captain America'?"

Caught out, Steve stifled a twitch. Did he know? Could he have guessed? No, no, he didn't. He was just teasing with Tony, whose support and sponsorship of the superhero team was public, and a matter of pride for the city.

"That would be a sight to see, and they more than deserve the acknowledgment." Tony said with great sincerity. "I'll commission that from you another time, Salah, but I really want to take something home today." He smiled with self-deprecating charm. "You know how I can be impulsive."

Astute enough to know when to defer to the wishes of his customer, the craftsman nodded. "Fortunately, I do have several large, completed pieces unspoken for, from which the two of you can make a selection, should they meet with your approval. Please, follow me."

He turned, taking them through the door where he'd first entered, into an area about twice the size of the lobby, but having a similar ambiance. Visible further back through yet another doorway was a room that made the industrial nature of the building more apparent -- a substantially larger, bare-walled space with exposed ductwork. The high ceilings, which Steve estimated at 20', allowed for the huge, thread-strung wooden frames that stood around the perimeter, bordering multiple large pieces of machinery. Amidst all of this, giant spools were wound with yarn of every vivid, pastel, and neutral tone imaginable, some of them attached and passing over, under, and through the various equipment, onto and off of massive rollers and miniature bobbins. With the many sets of strands each coming in from one angle and exiting at another, the whole works, to Steve's eye, resembled squared-off spiderwebs in marching formations.

Here where they stood, though, the walls and floor were covered by exquisitely woven rugs, circular and oval, rectangular and square. Their sizes differed wildly, as did the imagery they bore, ranging from pictorial to geometric, some muted and others nearly glowing with vibrant color. Several were clearly featured, displayed entirely unobscured, while others were layered together, each covering portions of the next. Still others, mostly smaller pieces, were piled waist-high in stacks.

Mr. Bassat walked them around the room, pointing out a few of the bigger carpets spread across the floor and hung on the walls, and in a couple of cases, moving frames aside to reveal unseen pieces sitting out of sight behind the others.

With evident pride and deep knowledge of his craft, he briefly described the workmanship and materials of each, including historical anecdotes about the origins of some of the patterns. He surprised Steve by inviting them to be hands-on, to touch and explore the textures, which varied far more than Steve would have realized, from flat, stiff, almost burnished surfaces, to sinfully soft and thick.

After completing their guided tour, Mr. Bassat took his leave, with their thanks, to let them browse and deliberate.

Having now seen up close the intricate artistry, and thinking of the multitudes of hours involved in their creation, it seemed to Steve a shame to throw any of these on the floor to be trompled upon! But that was their purpose, he supposed, and that was the craft: masterful works of art that also served a practical and worthwhile function.

Every offering presented was magnificent. Steve didn't know if Tony had any particular criteria in mind, this whole outing having been so capricious, but it soon became obvious that he and Tony agreed upon two as the clear-cut standouts. Similar in size and sumptuous texture, one was off-white with figures in light earth tones: a sizeable central circle blocked into quadrants of pale blue, gold, rose, and green, with a smaller, more elaborately detailed triangular section in each corner.

The second was a more irregular pattern of bright primary and secondary-colored bars and stripes, overlapping and crossing at many angles on a background of midnight blue. To Steve, even with the abstract composition, it conveyed all the dimensionality of classical chiaroscuro in textile form. Tony said it reminded him of the combined colors of all the Avengers in battle, running, leaping, and soaring, and that settled it.

They made their way back into the lobby, and Steve took a seat, sinking into a heavy, cushioned armchair that seemed befitting of an Asgardian throne, and leaving Tony to take care of the business dealings.

One thing Mr. Bassat hadn't named in regard to any of his wares was the price, and for this, Steve was grateful. All sensibilities of functional artistry aside, he knew he'd never bring himself to set foot upon any of them, and would cringe every time anyone else did, if he got wind of what almost certainly astronomical fortune Tony would be spending on today's purchase. He had no argument with the valuation of the artisans' time and skill, nor the merits of supporting the preservation of ancient techniques and traditions that had endured for hundreds, even thousands of years before the decades he'd lost. But where the modern-day monetization was concerned -- there were times when he simply didn't want to know.

He knew, he truly believed and understood, that it wasn't healthy to hide from changes that had occurred while he'd been in the ice. He’d accepted this future as his lifetime, and even with the passage of a few years now, he was continually working to embrace it.

But where his serum-infused body hadn't let him drown in the frozen sea, he knew how easily his emotions could still drown him in the overwhelming tide of change. Surely it was fair, it had to be, to pace himself, to spare himself from submerging into every towering wave and spend some days by calmer shores.

Shortly, Tony returned to inform him that their purchase had been concluded, resting two fingers on Steve's knee, then offering him a hand they both knew was unnecessary, and both knew that wasn't the point, to help him stand. He liked that Tony touched him in these kinds of ways, unremarkable and undemanding. It helped him feel like he could be a superhero and still human, where those twin facets of his identity sometimes seemed intent on starving each other out. He still struggled, trying to find balance and self-acceptance for them both.

Mr. Bassat came back up to see them out, and Steve set those thoughts aside. He and Tony both offered their thanks one more time, Tony again with a smattering of Arabic tossed in (Steve had inquired as to the language, as they browsed). They said their farewells, with Tony receiving a surprisingly hearty clap on the back, and Steve, another handshake. He hoped he'd see Mr. Bassat again. He could hardly say he knew the man after less than an hour, all told, in his company, but having made his acquaintance, appreciated his air of dignity, humor, and compassion, all of which seemed to coexist without clashing.

Of course, Tony's speedy sports car had never been intended to accommodate transport of an enormous rolled carpet, so they hightailed it home and met the shop's delivery truck upon its arrival a few minutes later. The driver offered his services along with those of his helper to do the unloading, but Tony waved them off, leaving them with what Steve was sure was an outrageously overblown tip.

"We got this, right, Steve?""

Steve shrugged and stepped up to the truck's deck, easily assuming the weight of one end of the thickly banded roll and giving it a pull. As smooth as any of Steve's combat maneuvers with Iron Man, Tony looped his arms underneath the middle, helping support the length as Steve backed it out, till he bore the other end. The truck rolled off, driver leaving them with a jaunty wave out the window that Steve, facing that direction, could see, even though Tony, with his back to them, probably couldn't.

An even more agreeable sight was the way the cords of Tony's forearms tightened, his shoulders and biceps rounded out against his shirt sleeves, and the middle button gaped a tiny bit, as he upheld his share of their load.

Steve could tell it was much more an effort for Tony to heft the cumbersome bundle compared to his own relative ease, but it still renewed his recognition of their benefactor's fitness, and despite Tony's enormous wealth, his ever-readiness to wade right in and lend his muscle to manual labor.

Then again, for all the amazing things Tony did, Steve had long since held him in as much esteem as any Avenger. Even though he stayed behind when the Assembles were called, in all the ways that mattered, Tony was one of them.

Still coordinating smoothly, Tony moving forward and Steve stepping back, they walked their oversized parcel into the house. Jarvis held the door and kept himself safely out of the way; if any other Avengers had returned yet from their own activities of the day, they must have been occupying other areas of the building. Steve and Tony encountered no one else as they proceeded through the dining hall, then swung around through a 90-degree rotation to enter the library.

Once all the way inside, Tony directed them through the lowering of the massive roll to the floor. His face was flushed a light pink, but even though he shook out his arms and swiped a hand across his forehead, blowing out a sharp "whew,” he didn't seem winded. He produced a small folding knife from his pocket, and neatly sliced through the binding cords, letting the end of the roll unflap, and then leaning down toward one side of the remaining mass. Steve quickly picked up on the cue and took his place again at the other end, and they rolled it all the way out till it lay flat, pulling and dragging a little more to center it across the expanse of the floor, where it covered all but a tidy border of a foot or so on every side.

On one hand, Steve thought it a shame to hide the beautiful hardwood, but it wasn't a permanent installation, not tacked down or damaging in any way, and he couldn't deny that their new addition, with its silky tassels and striking pattern, added some real pizzazz to the room.

He looked up to see Tony kicking off his shoes and socks, and gesturing for Steve to do the same. "C'mon, it's one of the nicest things to feel between your toes, if you can't get green grass or beach sand," he cajoled in response to Steve's skeptical expression. Suiting action to words, Tony took a few steps toward the center of the carpet with a lusty sigh, the pile springing back unmarred behind his feet, and came to a stop, wriggling his toes in a manner that managed to be both playful and voluptuous.

Or maybe that was just the effect of the accompanying exaggerated grin and contrived eyebrow waggling he chose to animate across his face. It elicited the surely intended chuckle from Steve, and then Tony lapsed into laughter with him, letting the slapstick slide away into a natural and unguarded smile.

Tony really was handsome, fine and well-made, Steve thought for the umpteenth time, but it was his kindness and zest for life that made him more than the flashy painted-wax figurehead Steve had observed during some of the Stark business and media engagements. It was another way he was like the rest of the Avengers, Steve realized. Tony wore a mask and had a dual identity, too, just like any of the superheroes, even if his private self was a different kind of secret than some of theirs. He wasn't wearing that mask now, and Steve allowed himself to bask in the bright warmth and cultivate the flicker of hope that maybe someday, he'd feel like he could quietly inquire if their friendship could grow into anything more.

Meanwhile... why not. He'd indulge. He toed off his shoes and bent up one leg at a time to pull off his socks, balling them up and setting his footwear neatly to the side, before stepping onto the plush pile.

And Tony was right, the soft, dense fibers felt extravagant under his bare feet and between his toes, and without thinking about it, he wiggled them down further in, feeling his smile stretch, too.

"Not bad, huh, big guy?" Tony asked, the unstated "I told you so" conspiratorial rather than cutting.

Steve laughed, a little self-conscious, not so accustomed to openly showing physical pleasure beyond basic satisfaction or relief. This seemed so... wanton. Sensual. He felt himself blushing, and cast his eyes down, his glance falling on his feet, which under the unaccustomed scrutiny, seemed suddenly disembodied and alien. He shifted his gaze to trace the angles and stripes leading away from them, but it only led his line of sight toward Tony's feet and toes, and that wasn't comfortable, either. Bare feet had never seemed so naked, or intimate. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and chewed on the inside of his cheek.

He shouldn't have been surprised when Tony immediately picked up on his shift in mood.

"Steve...?"

Steve flicked his eyes up, meeting Tony's obliquely, studying the soft tilt of his head, the mussed waves of his hair.

"Hey. It's ok. Whatever I said--"

That was another thing about Tony: his quickness to assume fault. Steve couldn't let him think there was any blame here to pin on himself.

"No, no, you didn't--" he cut in, at the same time Tony continued.

"--I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel, uh, uncomfortable, or embarrassed about anything."

"--do anything wrong, Tony. I promise, you didn't."

"Oh. Well, that's good. If Captain America promises, it must be true, right? Yeah, uh. Anyway, thanks for coming to the shop with me. I should probably..." He trailed off with a rueful half-smile and a handwave to the air, not sounding particularly reassured or relieved at all.

And then there was this side of Tony, where his light went out like flicking a switch, and the weariness showed through, and it reminded Steve all over again how very hard Tony worked, giving long hours and all his best, all the time, to both his company and the team. Thank God he _wasn't_ also in a combat role. That would be well and truly too much for anyone.

Tony probably had a million things to do as it was, and he'd spent the whole afternoon with Steve, and it had been so nice and companionable, and now Steve was ruining it with his unwarranted stroke of melancholy.

"Sure, Tony, I get it. I just..."

Tony cocked his head in that considering way he had when he was concentrating on a tricky problem. Too bad he couldn't untangle Steve's unstable feelings the way he could sort out the wires and circuits of his exotic electronic gadgets.

"You just? What is it?"

Steve laughed shakily. "Ah, nothing, really. It's just, I still don't really get why... Why this, today, the whole thing." He gestured, encompassing the room, the floor, the two of them. "The shop, the... why you even asked me to go." 

Well, come to think of it, that last part, the invitation, was probably just because he'd happened by at the opportune time.

Tony winced, and Steve felt even worse. "Did you not have fun? I'm sorry I dragged you--"

"No! No, Tony, I did, that's not it at all." God, Steve was making such a mess of this, making Tony feel bad no matter what he said. He wanted to shrink inside himself, but kept trying to dig himself out. His own troubles didn't matter, as long as he left Tony knowing that nothing he'd done had upset Steve or made him feel bad. "I just wondered. It seemed very… spontaneous, that's all, but there's nothing wrong with that, either."

It was Tony's turn to look self-conscious, shrugging and shoving a hand through his hair, mussing it into further ( _even more appealing_ , Steve's treacherous thoughts supplied) disarray. 

"Ah, well, I... Oh, hell, Steve, some days, you know, you just--"

Tony's voice lowered, thready, and Steve felt his brow furrowing in uncertainty as he struggled to understand, to put the pieces together and work out what it was Tony was getting at that was so very difficult to say.

Tony backtracked, trying again. "Maybe it's just me, but some days, you... I..."

He took a visibly deep breath, like he was steeling himself. "Look, sometimes I just need a... a big. Rug."

He paused.

"Ok? Sometimes, yeah. I could just really use that. I--" A flicker of defiance, of defensiveness, passed over his face, and he suddenly looked lifeless and drained, like a flash fire that had burned away all its fuel.

"And I thought maybe you could, too," he finished tiredly.

It was so hard seeing Tony like this. He should have let him get about his business instead of keeping him here and making him explain. 

The explanation itself, it took Steve a minute to process, to fit the words and their meanings together, and then it clicked, making sense in such a perfectly weird and twisty _Tony_ way.

_Oh._

Maybe he could still make this better.

Steve nodded as decisively as he could, spoke with all the assurance he could muster, to rally them both.

"You're right, Tony, me too. I think it's exactly what I've been looking for. I didn't even realize how much I've needed a--"

He felt a little silly when it came to actually saying it, but Tony had given them both the out, the in, the way to get this said; Tony had risked it, and so could Steve, no less. He breathed out, long and slow, feeling the truth of it like an aching sinkhole opening under his ribs and his heart hanging precariously, in danger of falling down and through.

"--a rug. To warm up a place I thought was fine the way it was, and never noticed it was so bare. It's the perfect answer. A rug, a really uh, giant-sized, handmade one. Good thing there happens to be one of those right...

He took a hesitant step forward, hearing himself rambling so terribly and foolishly, his face hot and his body buzzing warm and cold in quick sparks and jitters, and he needed a damper, a ground, something to still him the way his hand against the edge could quiet the ringing of his shield.

"...here."

And there was.

Tony was. Right there to meet him, Steve's bare toes curling back down into the luxuriant warmth of the thick carpet, and the rest of him curling in and wrapping his arms around the luxuriant warmth of Tony's solid frame, filling a wide open space he'd never known was so empty.

He hadn't known, but Tony had, and this was one more reason why Tony was the genius.

Everything aligned, and smoothed, and settled.

Cheek to cheek and nudged by each other's breaths, Tony's arms snug around him, and Steve's own hooked under so his palms could span the ridges of Tony's shoulder blades, he wanted this for both of them. Wanted to soak up all that bleakness and despair that lurked within and beneath and threatened to snuff the joy out of life. Wanted to overpower and dissolve and smother it away into all his lab-grown bulk that ought to be good for something besides fighting.

Wanted to feed that joy like a carefully tended spark, shelter it from the whipping wind that was the hurt and loss and wrong of the world, coax and nurture that tiny flame so it could thrive and warm and sustain them in turn.

He was buzzing again, but this time in the best way, a smooth, purring thrum he didn't want to muffle at all, maybe even rev up a little.

It felt matched with the light shivers of Tony in his arms as they mutually explored from shoulders to waists, hands tracing sleekness and curves through shirt cotton.

Steve's back lit up with tingling streaks in the wake of Tony's stroking hands, and Tony was light and color firing up Steve’s own hands and arms as they wandered the breadth of Tony’s shoulders and the secret bony valley of his spine and the daring dip of his lower back that brought him tucking in closer against Steve with a low, chesty rumble.

An unexpected crawl of fingertips through the clipped hair at the base of his skull made his toes and his stomach curl tighter, and his next breath came out as a quiet groan. He wanted... he turned his head, seeking blindly, and brushed his lips across Tony's mouth. It was clumsy, with no finesse, hardly even a kiss, but it gave him a jolt and a thrill, and just enough time for a quick blink of nerves -- _had he gone too far?_ \-- before Tony gave the answer he hoped for, sliding their lips together with better skill, showing him how they fit.

A sweet set of nibbles later, Tony murmured softly, "Dance with me, Steve?"

Relaxed and dreamy, it didn't matter if the question made much sense or how he replied. But for Tony, he was all willing, with nothing to refuse.

"'kay, but there's no music," he mumbled, his lips to Tony's hair.

"Imagine it? Something nice and slow."

Tony shifted his weight and Steve followed, and they started up a more directed sway.

"Tony," Steve whispered after a short interval, "I've got some bad news for you, fella, this isn't how you cut a rug."

Tony loosened an arm briefly to poke him in the ribs, a quick tickling startle that made him twitch and gasp and giggle.

"That you trying to pull the rug out from under me, 's'that what you're doing?" Tony asked, and smoothed down the offended area with a flat-palmed stroke.

Steve sighed, replete with well-being, while his mind still scrambled to keep up with Tony's wit. "No, Tony, I wouldn't, then you might trip and fall, and end up with a rugburn."

"Ouch, haha, good one, but sounds less painful than some things, say, a rugby match, now that's one rough sport."

Steve gathered Tony closer and shook him playfully, with a growl. "I'll show you _rug_ ged sport."

Tony just wriggled against him, pressed all down his front, lithe and vital and provocative. "Oh, will you now? Might have to take you up on that, soldier. Not gonna let you sweep that one under the rug!"

Steve couldn't help but laugh and roll his eyes, although he couldn't protest too much at Tony's outrageousness, not when it was making him so lighthearted and happy. He leaned in and kissed Tony's smiling, willing mouth once more, a sweet press of soft lips and delicate touches of tongue, mixed with raspy brushes of mustache as their heads tilted.

Tony made contented sounds that echoed the way Steve felt himself; with the carpet still cradling his bare feet, he was grounded, and at the same time, floating somewhere between the sky and the earth. In their embrace, he was safe and content and secure.

A little voice in his head whispered some magic words to sum it up:

_Snug as a bug in a rug._

  
~~~~~~

"Hey, Steve?"

"Yeah, Tony?"

Tony dropped to his knees and looked up, his eyes smoky with seduction.

"I can think of something worth risking that rugburn..."

And who was Steve to arugula with that?

**Author's Note:**

> See, the thing about tagging for Plot Twists and Punchlines is that they are self-devouring.  
> In this case, that meant no tagging for "needs a hug," either.
> 
> Yes, this entire fic pretty much exists to deliver the “pun”chline and serve up the entire rest of the pot of puns. But I couldn’t exactly go and say that up front, now, could I? Yes, well, I was not so preoccupied with whether or not I could, that I didn’t stop to think if I should. 
> 
> I’m not sorry; you’re welcome. :D
> 
> ~~
> 
> As far as the who's where doing whats, this fic makes no reference to any specific canonical events, battles, and certainly not _love interests_ , but:
> 
> * Cap and Iron Man are both on the Avengers;  
> * Steve doesn't know Tony is Iron Man;  
> * Tony doesn't have to wear the armor chest plate;  
> * This story takes place before the events of the Demon in a Bottle arc (Iron Man #120-128; Tony's first battle with alcoholism)
> 
> The confluence of these factors places the fic roughly during the time period of Avengers very late #100s to early #200s.
> 
> ~~
> 
> I've taken considerable license and liberties in the description of the rug-maker's workshop, after looking at some pictures and combining my impressions of traditional and modern carpet-making apparatus, plus adding in some industrial yarn-making equipment. Our fictional Mr. Bassat keeps the old ways alive, but economic realities also dictate that he diversify, so he can fulfill the demands of both the artisanal niche market and mass market production.
> 
> ~~
> 
> Once again, my heartfelt gratitude to [The_Casual_Cheesecake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_casual_cheesecake) for the “Arabic-pick:” all of her invaluable advice regarding Middle Eastern names, greetings and social customs, and for all of the transliterated Arabic phrases used in the story. All errors or misuses are strictly mine.
> 
>  _Salah Bassat_ : a name literally meaning "carpet-maker," as names denoting ancestral family crafts/trades are common. Based upon the forms of phrases used in the story, he is probably Syrian, Jordanian, Palestinian, or Lebanese, but it wasn’t important to the story to definitively assign his country of origin.
> 
>  _sadiqui_ : my friend
> 
>  _sabah al kher_ : good morning (Tony's use of this phrase is inopportune, as the time of day is mid-afternoon, not morning.)
> 
>  _ahla w sahla_ : hello (This is a more appropriate greeting Tony could have used, given that there is no phrase for "good afternoon;" only "good morning," "good evening," and "goodnight."
> 
>  _ya ghali_ : roughly "you precious," but the literal meaning isn't what's significant; it's a very informal and affectionate type of nickname that might be used as a greeting between male friends.
> 
> In this story, Mr. Bassat does initially greet Tony as "Mr. Stark" because he knows it to be the appropriately respectful American form of address. He is very much intentionally following an American custom, which is not an Arabic one. After Tony tells him formalities are not needed, he switches to the "pet" name. 
> 
> Meanwhile, Tony uses "Mr. Bassat" because he doesn't speak Arabic or follow the social customs of that language and culture, but switches to the informal American first-name form of address at Mr. Bassat's urging. 
> 
> Mr. Bassat also addresses Steve as "Mr. Steve," a friendly form that, following Arabic conventions, he would be more likely to use than "Mr. Rogers." 
> 
> Finally, as the POV character who does not have the long-established friendship with the carpet-maker like Tony does, Steve continues to name him as "Mr. Bassat" in his thoughts and through the narrative.


End file.
